


Fundamental Truth

by ANobleCompanion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Protective Castiel, Sick Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:47:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANobleCompanion/pseuds/ANobleCompanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets sick on a standard salt-n-burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fundamental Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This was written just before 8.17 Goodbye Stranger.

The rain pours from the sky, beating a harsh staccato against the ground.  The cacophony is a sharp contrast from the gentle snow which fell earlier in that morning, coating the grass like a soft blanket.  Despite the change in precipitation, the air remains bitterly cold.  

Dean hunches his shoulders higher up towards his ears, sinking his exposed neck as deep into the collar of his leather jacket as he can.  At least the change to rain means he won’t have to clean snow off the Impala tomorrow morning.  And the rain will wash away the salt from the roads, which is always bitch on his baby’s undercarriage.  The rapid shift in weather is one of the reasons spring is his least favorite season.  After years of hunting, even after having been rebuilt by Castiel, he’s been beaten up enough to have every joint screaming on days like this.  And what the _hell_.  It was the day after St. _Patrick’s_ Day in freakin’ Virginia and he’d woken up to snow, but tomorrow was supposed to be near sixty.  

Dean’s looking forward to this hunt being over.  They're tracking the ghost of a bitter Confederate soldier who doesn't seem to realize the war is over.  Dean snorts derisively as he passes a car with a Confederate flag bumper sticker.  It’s not just the dead around here who are confused on that point.  At least the pie is good.  He feels it's strangely appropriate that the apple capital of Virginia is called Winchester.  Too bad this ghost picked March to wake up and create havoc instead of October.  Nonetheless, they’d managed to find a dive of a truck stop in Linden just south of Route 66 called the Apple House, famous for all its baked apple goodness.  

At least it was one bright spot to this trip as they traipse all over Mosby country trying to find their dead guy’s corpse to salt and burn.  And doesn’t it just figure that he was part of General John Mosby’s command.  This Mosby dude was known as the Gray Ghost when he was still friggin’ alive which just added to all the stories and lore of the area from locals who thought their nameless lowly soldier was none other than the Gray Ghost himself.  If only it was that easy.  Mosby’s bones had been all too simple to find and torch.  And had been a damn waste of their time.  

As he digs into his pocket for the motel key, he sighs.  He’s tired and cold and wet.  They’d been here a week on a hunt that was supposed to be a simple salt and burn.  As awesome as the Apple House is, he’s gotten pretty good at making his own pies in his own kitchen and there are definite benefits to being able to cook in a comfy bathrobe and bare feet.  

He nods to Sammy as he opened the door.  Sam glances up briefly from whatever research it is he’s getting off his computer.  

“Hey man,” he says, eyes glued again to the screen in front of him.  “Did you find anything?”

“Not a freakin’ thing,” Dean grouses.  “Everywhere around here is a flippin’ battle ground or some ‘significant historical’ crap.  Could be in any of a hundred unmarked graves which just sucks.”  

He turns to head towards the shower.  Even if it means just getting more wet, at least it was a hot steamy wet.  He can already feel a headache coming on and he is not looking forward to another night on the crappy motel bed.  He wonders if his mattress will still remember him by the time they finally manage to make it home.  

As he sticks his head under the shower, he acknowledges only to himself the one reason he doesn’t want to return home.  Because even with Sammy there, the place still feels empty, incomplete.  

As he does every night when Sammy is out of earshot, he begins to pray.  He leans his forearm against the vinyl wall of the shower and presses his forehead into the crook of his elbow, closing his eyes as water sluices down his face.  

“Cas man, I hope you can still hear me,” he pauses slightly, physically forcing his mind away from the reasons why Cas – who has always come when he calls – might not be able to hear him now.  “I don’t know why you can’t come.  I know there’s got to be a good reason.  But I’m going to assume you can hear me until I’m damn sure otherwise.”  Every night the conversation begins pretty much the same way as Dean tries to convince himself his angel is still alive just as he wants to assure Cas he still trusts and believes in him, no matter what the dick angels in heaven might be doing to him or making him do.  

“This hunt sucks man.  It’s not even interesting – just tedious.  I want to go home Cas.  And man, I would love to find you there when we get back.  It’s your home too, Cas.  I’ve told you that.  Let’s both go home.  I’ll make you the best burger you’ve ever had in all your existence.”  

He stops and takes a deep breath.  As the steam enters his lungs, the moisture catches funny and he coughs hard.  He winces as the action seems to create a fissure of pain in his skull.  It makes him that much more aware of how tired he is and how his muscles ache all over.  For years he’s managed to sleep well in a motel bed.  But now that he knows what a good mattress feels like, he hasn’t slept well for at least a week.  

He sighs again and turns off the faucet, trying to dry quickly despite his rapidly growing fatigue.  He pulls on a pair of sweat pants and heads back into the room.  He doesn’t even look over at Sam as he pulls back the covers and closes his eyes.  It doesn’t take long before he falls into an uneasy, restless sleep.  

He’s woken in the morning by Sam, who, with his gigantor brain and the power granted unto him by Al Gore, has managed to finally find the body of their soldier.

Cranky, and feeling as though he hasn’t slept at all, he gets dressed, comforting himself with the knowledge that within two days solid driving, they’ll be back in Lebannon, Kansas.  

They make it to the gravesite without much incident beyond Dean having to squint through the headache he didn’t manage to sleep off.  Once this is done, he’ll gladly pass along the keys to Sam for the first driving shift.  

It takes a solid hour of digging before they fully unearth the bones.  Dean doesn’t want to admit he’s shaky and feeling more than a little weak.  That’s just too girly to acknowledge out loud and besides, Sam will make a fuss like a freakin’ mother hen.  

It is still wet and raining out, though the weatherman is actually right for a change and the temperatures have warmed significantly.  Between the rain and the sweat on his face, Dean finds it necessary to reach up and swipe an arm across his eyes.  

That’s when the shit hits the fan.  

The first indication they have is a god-awful scream that fills the air.  Dean’s been chasing this bastard long enough now to know he’s hearing the famous rebel yell  that no one alive has been able to produce for almost a hundred years, and is the trademark of this particular spirit.  

Suddenly, Dean is blasted backward, his head cracking hard against a tree.  He hears Sam call his name, but his vision’s gone blurry and he can’t focus enough to form audible words.  His last coherent thought before blacking out is a silent prayer to the only being he believes might be listening to the likes of him.  He knows it’s no more than wishful thinking to hear the familiar whoosh of wings and fabric and a dropping sensation somewhere behind his navel.  

 

* * *

 

Dean’s memories over the next several days are hazy at best.  His body is wracked with coughing and he is hot and cold alternatively, but never comfortable.  Through the fog, he feels a presence – the presence.  The one presence he has wanted more than any other for weeks now.  He knows it’s all in his head though.  He knows if he wakes up, he will find himself alone again and he can’t bear the thought.  So he resists.  Any time he comes close to full awareness, he lets the darkness take him again.

After about a week, that darkness fades to a dim gray and recedes enough that he can’t sink back into its embrace.  Loathe though he is to do so, he must face reality.  He expects to open his eyes and find himself back in the same crappy motel room in Winchester, Virginia.  No doubt Sam managed to keep his wits better than Dean and salted and burned the bastard spirit with no help from him.  

He’s only gradually aware the mattress beneath him molds perfectly to his shape.  His next sense to return is his sense of smell.  At first he thinks he must still be dreaming, because what he smells is his mother’s tomato rice soup.  Now he really doesn’t want to open his eyes and have all this go away.  

Then he realizes the weight over his shoulders and chest is heavier and warmer than his blanket.  Suddenly, he wants to wake up now, because if this is real, it is literally the answer to all his prayers and he of all people knows life can be short and he’s not about to waste a moment of this.  

He sucks a breath through his teeth quickly, as though bracing himself, and forces his eyes open – trying to sit up at the same time.  

The arm, draped in khaki colored cotton, presses against his torso like an iron band, pinning him to the bed.  

And then that rough, gravely voice Dean has been praying for for weeks is in his ear, “Dean!  You must lie still.”

“Cas?” Dean asks, uncertainly, still not sure he’s not dreaming.  The angel allows him to shift enough to turn and face him.  As Dean looks into deep blue eyes, he sees they are awash with concern and something else he can’t quite put a name to.  

Cas’s head is lifted, hovering a little above Dean’s.  When Dean’s eyes look into his, clear and focused for the first time in a week, he drops his head to the hunter’s shoulder and shudders out a breath of relief.  “Thank God.”  He pulls Dean tighter into his arms and holds him close before pulling away with obvious reluctance.  

“Cas?” Dean asks again.  “Is it really you, man?  I mean, are you really here?”

“Yes, Dean.  I’m back.  And you are home and safe.  I'm sorry it took me so long.”  

“Where were you?” Dean tries hard to keep the accusation out of his voice.  He meant it before when he wanted Cas to know he still has faith in him.  But it’s still hard.  He’s been left without answers for weeks.  He sees the pain, hurt and apology that flash through Cas’s eyes.  

“I was locked in heaven.  Stripped of free will,” he pauses and Dean knows why.  Of all the things the angel gained through knowing the Winchesters, his free will is what he values most.  He can’t imagine the feeling Cas must have experienced to realize it was ripped away from him.  

“If that’s true, how are you here now?  Are you here on their orders?”  He stills as this last thought actually sinks in, but he dismisses it quickly.  After all, Dean’s been bedridden for days and Cas has done nothing to hurt him.  In fact, evidence would indicate quite the opposite.  

“You needed me,” Cas answered simply.

“What the hell, Cas!?  I’ve needed you for months!  Why the hell do you think I’ve been praying to you every night?  I told you I needed you back in Purgatory!  That hasn’t changed.  When will you get it through your feathery brain I’ve always needed you?”  When he stops speaking, he’s breathing hard and his face is flushed with both anger and the lingering remnants of fever.

Cas tilts his head to the side as though he finds Dean’s anger fascinating.  

“Let me clarify.  You needed me _enough_.  When heaven took my free will, they hoped to use me against you.  When I began to resist their control, they locked me in heaven to prevent me from breaking the chains they placed on my mind.  They were working to strengthen their control.  Their methods were…intense,” he pauses and Dean fears the subtext in Cas’s hesitation.

“I wasn’t yet strong enough to break those chains on my own.  Until then, I was more of a danger to you than any value you could have gained with me by your side.  Until I could be sure, I couldn’t attempt to come to you.

“Then, six days ago, you behaved as you inevitably always will.  You were foolish and reckless, trying to take on that spirit when you were already ill.  In that moment, you truly needed me.  I could not lose you to death.  It was enough of a reason to give me the strength to break free.   _You_ were enough of a reason.”  

Cas closes his eyes then and lowers his head to Dean’s chest, as though seeking the reassurance of his steadily beating heart. “I was still almost too late.  Half a second more, Dean, and I would have lost you.”  Castiel’s voice is lower, rougher than normal as he continues.  “Please, promise me in the future you will take better care Dean.  You don’t seem to understand my most fundamental truth.”

Dean looks at Cas with something bordering on awe in his liquid green eyes.  

“What, Cas?” he whispers, hoping but not quite believing what he is hearing.  

“I need you too.”

With those words, the hunter lifts his head slightly off his pillow and pulls the angel’s face down to meet his in a kiss that is sweet, searing and full of promise.  And he knew.  

**This time, Cas was here to stay.**

**Author's Note:**

> I had fun playing around with the history and touristy attraction of Winchester, VA. Mosby really is a famous general for the region known as the Gray Ghost (the history nerd in me cringes and laughs at the thought of Dean and Sam burning his bones), it truly is apple country and the Apple House is an awesome truck dive with some of the best baked goods around.


End file.
